Fourteen people have text me today,” I beam at my mum. “I just counted.”
I was 15 and had inherited my first phone a week prior – my dad’s old Nokia 3310. In the seven days that followed, I became obsessed with accumulating more and more numbers in my phonebook. I asked everyone and anyone, with little care for whether I would actually ever need, or really even want, to speak to them. Almost 20 years on, my clunky Nokia is now an iPhone, I no longer save each number with a “<3” next to it and I don’t have to bury myself under the covers after 8pm if I want to send a message. Other than that, little has changed. I have still, throughout my life, been obsessed with gathering friends, adamant that the more friends you have, the happier you are.
